


If Jesus had the power then so do I (To rise up from the dead and take up to the sky)

by Taniushka12



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Kind of meta, Memories, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, implied Marcus Cutter/Miranda Pryce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-26 13:34:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19006831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taniushka12/pseuds/Taniushka12
Summary: Marcus remembers.





	If Jesus had the power then so do I (To rise up from the dead and take up to the sky)

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, wolf 359. It's been a while since i done anything for it, but the other day i found this _actually finished_ draft on my evernote and i Needed to give it closure! Written originally days after volte face aired :')
> 
> (title from [Music is the victim from Scissor Sisters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-hvFcWsBi8), because that line always reminded me of him)

 Sometimes, Marcus remembered. He remembered how it was to live thinking that you were going to die eventually.

 He remembered; back when he was a child, some curious feelings. Impotence, disappointment, betrayal, spite... He laughed in silence at the memory of the last one. Spite sure took him _places_ at the end.  He remembered being a young adult, and those sure weren't fun times. Always trying to reach for the sky despite everything and everyone, always so serious, wanting, needing to be taken seriously, wanting to take his progress on his hands and shove it into those people's faces. Wanting to make them eat their words. 

 Supposedly dying and then coming back as a new entity was a twist, one that at first it took him a while to get used to. Always the nagging fear at the back of his mind; what if someone realized it was him? What would happen? What would happen to him? To his work? This life work... that was now his priority. The man that once was Mathew Newman was no more than a vessel for his spite. He didn't have time for frivolities, as much as he wanted. The only pleasure he left himself indulge was smoking a cheap brand of cigarettes, that later became expensive tabaco and sobraine's. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves, please.

 Miranda came along. Just Pryce, at the time, smart young lady who liked dolls. 

 Well.

 No.

 She didn't _like_ them. But she was terrifyingly good at making them.

 Waking up in a body that wasn't your own, a body that you knew wasn't... real, in a sense, was a terrifying experience. Of course, that terror was quickly (oh, so quickly, it must have been a couple of seconds at best) overcomed by relief. It was already improbable for someone to know his identity, but now? It was impossible. He was impossible; He was far from the likes of the ordinary.

 He was Extraordinary. 

 He smiled, sing~singing that word as a musical he once saw. 

 Back to the point. Miranda Pryce. 

 Ah, Miranda Pryce. 

 Now she, she was extraordinary...

 But he was getting carried away again; she wasn't the point of that monologue, at least not in that moment. Back to **the point.** Relief, at the time, of being free of paranoia, knowing that Miranda's dolls were perfect in every sense unless she didn't want them to be. He could have thought that she might have put something in his body, an imperfection of sorts, to make him more malleable. He should have thought that, he seriously underestimated her at the time, but she didn't do anything of the like (at least, not that he was aware of). Instead she made him her better doll. 

 Hm. 

 Doll. 

 He really was the best doll (even if he, sometimes, liked to praise with such word to his favourite agent, his dear Warren). 

 Relief, a huge weight taken off his shoulders. First of the paranoia, but then, as the years passed and the bodies accumulated under the rug and his foolish worries began to die one by one he understood, he really understood, the fact that he was at the doorsteps of immortality. 

 Ah. 

 Immortality. 

 One step closer to being a god.

 Well, that was inaccurate, in a way, he mussed to himself while humming, looking out the window of his office to the blue sky above. Gods can die, if nobody venerated them, if nobody remembered them. He would linger on as long as Miranda was there with him, backing his play up with the costumes he needed, the tools she provided for his not so little make up castle. As long as his goddess was there at his side, he could do anything.

 Good thing that was the next chapter of his little monologue, he chuckled to himself, finally looking down from the sky to the ground below, looking down to all the people from that company. Such rotten company.

 With relief on his mind, without those pesky mortal things to weigh his step, he started to really enjoy life. Because, he then thought, who cares if he spent more time indulging simple human pleasures, like smoking and buying expensive sheets? Who cares if he played with his subordinates while he was at it? 

 (Dmitri, Victor, Warren... Doug? _Hm_ , he didn't had that much time with that one, but he certainly liked him)

 Who cares if he knocked down mountains and burned cities? Who cares if people died? Who cares if it was his fault? He certainly didn't. He didn't care, he was too busy enjoying himself to care.

 (He cared when Miranda, dear, extraordinary, cruel Miranda started to get a bit out of track with her experiments. When people started to notice her, when she would come home with her blouse full of bloodstains, after all, it was his job to keep her out of the line of sight) 

 Miranda gave him the gift not only of immortality, but of freedom. He had now the freedom to do anything he wanted, as long as he kept his plan (their plan) in mind, and there was no one who wanted to make that plan a reality more than him. She gave him the wings to fly as high as he wanted, perfect wings made by her for him to wear as a gift from God to her angels. 

 He smiled, fondly, and then with sarcasm.

 Good thing he was no Icarus, then, for the place they needed to go was in fact around the sun. 

 And he had no intention to fall. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm... pretty sure it was jossed at some point, but after volte face i couldn't stop thinking about little matthew in those crops fields believing in aliens (maybe not crop field but yknow, him not being rich per se), feeling dissapointed and bitter, and how much he changed from the cutter we all know ~~and love~~.  
> And then how he (in this headcanon) slowly lost himself on his spite first and then with the power Pryce's new bodies gave him or smth. ALSO I love playing with the idea of both Cutter and Pryce being what they're now (overpowered monsters) thanks to the doors the other opened for them. Idk, I wrote this like two years ago i cant remember all the meta i had thought exactly but those were the basics :')
> 
> Hope you liked it!!


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